Morning After
by Smudge the rat
Summary: When did Crowley become addicted? A series of mornings after from different periods in history. AziraphaleCrowley slash, plus mild violence.


**A/N: **This contains slash, don't like don't read. Reviews are welcome if you have suggestions on how to improve. Flame your little hearts out, I'm wearing fireproof underwear.

* * *

Waking from dreams of fire and torture, the demon finds strong arms wrapped around him, fingers entwined in his hair, legs holding him in place, claiming him as their own. His head rests on a bed of soft, white feathers. Disentangling himself from his lover, he crawls over to the full-length mirror at the other end of his bedroom to inspect the damage from last night. 

Wincing, he presses a finger against the swollen bruise underneath his left eye. It is a beautiful shade of purple and firm to the touch. The finger moves downwards to trace a scar on his cheek left over from last week, down to the freshly bleeding cut on his lip. Tilting his head to the right, he can see a blood red welt on his neck, teeth marks clearly visible. Shallow cuts crisscross over his back and shoulders and his arms are a map of bruises from various bite marks.

A rustling behind him alerts him to the fact that his lover has awoken. He keeps his eyes on the mirror as the angel wraps his arms around him in a tender embrace, lovingly kissing the mark he left on the demon's neck. Pure white wings surround him, enveloping him like a blanket.

When had he become the submissive one? It wasn't supposed to be like this. The demon was the corruptor, the angel the corrupted. It shouldn't be him that felt used, broken, drained, defeated.

Addicted.

* * *

The sun is beginning to creep over the horizon, illuminating two naked bodies. One is sleeping, curly golden hair spread out over the pillow. The other rests his head on the stomach of the first, plucking grapes from a bunch and popping them into his mouth with satisfaction of a job well done. 

The angel had been unwilling at first, but with some persuasion and more than a little wine, he had yielded to the demon's will. By the foot of the bed lies a discarded toga and tunic. Scattered around the room are various pieces of the demon's legionary uniform, although his sword lies next to the bed, close to hand as always.

He looks forward to the angel's reaction, when he wakes. Most likely he will push the demon gently but firmly out of his apartment, but the demon knows that this will not be the last time they share a bed.

Mischievous thoughts dancing through his mind, the demon turns over and sets about waking the angel in the most perverted way he can think of.

* * *

Morning prayers have begun by the time the demon's sleep is rudely interrupted by a pair of hands pushing him out of bed. Turning to face the angel, who clutches at the sheets protectively, the demon grins lazily, stretching out on the cold stone floor. 

"I told you to leave!" The angel says, voice brimming with anger. "The Arrangement is over. You had no right to-"

"You didn't stop me." The demon says in a low voice. His skin itches as the reverent song from below reaches his ears. He must leave this place before it squeezes the life out of him.

Gathering his clothes, he feels the angel's eyes roam over his shoulders, down his back and across the curves of his buttocks. The demon smiles to himself. Even in this holy retreat, in the clothing of a servant of God, the angel can't prevent his sinful desires. He allowed the demon to violate him last night, despite his initial resolve to end their relationship, crying out in pleasure as the demon's hands explored his body.

As the demon leaves the monastery to convince the nearest village that the illness that plagues them is punishment from God, he looks forward to the next time they meet. Since the fall of the Roman Empire, their encounters have become more intense. The angel appears to be falling, and the demon is determined to be there when he hits the ground.

* * *

For once, the demon is not the first to wake. Sighing contentedly, the angel strokes the mess of black hair, watching the demon sleep. He looks almost… angelic when his eyes are closed and his face is relaxed, but he was once an angel, after all. 

The amber eyes open, at first showing contentedness, but then narrowing as the demon realises where he is. He doesn't want the angel to know how relieved he is to be in his arms once again.

"Angel." He growls.

In response to this less than warm greeting, the angel leans forward to plant a kiss on the demon's lips. "It's been a while," he murmurs.

"You've learned a few tricks since the last time we…" The demon grins.

"I learned them from you." The angel points out.

"You have changed. You never used to be so-" The demon searches his lover's face. There is definitely something different, but he can't quite place it. "You've changed."

"This is the Renaissance, my dear. The Enlightenment. Everything has changed."

Now the demon realises what is different about the angel. "When I saw you last, it seemed like you had given up. You tried to push me away, but ended up taking comfort in me. Now you seem… well, you're talking to me again, for one thing."

"Those were dark times." The angel replies, "I'm ashamed to admit that I lost my faith in humanity. I became a monk in an attempt to become closer to God, even though I knew that the church was corrupt."

The angel sighs. "They burned books, Crowley. They wanted widespread ignorance, so that they could rule with fear."

"It wasn't my idea, you know." The demon points out. "They thought that bit up by themselves."

"Oh, I don't blame you, my dear. Well, I did at the time. But not any more."

"I noticed."

* * *

The surface beneath the demon's skin is soft and damp. He opens his eyes. 

"Aziraphale?"

There is a grunt from behind him and a pale arm wraps itself around him.

"We're in a field." The demon says, stating the obvious.

"A meadow." The angel says drowsily.

"What's the difference?"

"It's more poetic, my dear."

They never used to talk, the morning after. The demon was always forced to leave as soon as the angel awoke. Now there was conversation. Worse, there was cuddling.

"I have to leave soon. There are riots to be started in Paris." He tries to stand up and find his clothes, but the arm keeps him pinned down.

"I'm not done with you yet." The angel snuggles closer.

The demon sighs. "Did you always used to be this assertive?"

"No." The angel replies, "You used to be the assertive one."

"I think I liked you better when you were innocent."

There is no reply.

* * *

Two bodies huddle under a blanket to keep warm. It's the middle of winter and the army hospital is freezing cold. Death surrounds them, fouling their air with its bitter taste. 

"I would have thought you'd be wearing a Nazi uniform." The angel murmurs into the demon's hair. The demon sits in his lap, head resting against his chest and arms wrapped loosely around his neck.

"I was, originally. This one came from a man I killed."

The angel wrinkles his nose in distaste.

"Don't give me that look. I couldn't just walk in here dressed as the enemy, could I?"

"Why would you walk in here at all?" The angel asks, half knowing what the answer would be.

Closing his eyes, the demon whispers a reply, "I needed you."

* * *

A lot can change in two thousand years. A great civilisation can fall from power, to be replaced by poverty and superstition. An oppressive regime can be overthrown, in the name of the enlightenment that was once lost. The nature of a relationship can change. An angel can fall. 

War is the only constant, present throughout history in some shape or form. It's easy to lose yourself in the turmoil and confusion that calls itself the human race.

But perhaps war isn't the **only** constant. People cling together to keep out the cold and hide from their own suffering. When madness surrounds them, they reach out for one another, taking comfort from the fact that they are not alone.

Is it so remarkable that an angel and a demon, isolated from their own kinds, forced to live in a world so full of contradiction that people could wage war in the name of peace, would find it so easy to fall in love?


End file.
